


Deus Ex: Abeyance

by GenesisArclite



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Cyberpunk, Drama, End of the World, Epic, Gen, Long, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Tragedy, Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenesisArclite/pseuds/GenesisArclite
Summary: [sequel to Mankind Divided] After the failure of the Human Restoration Act, increasing unrest throughout the world drives attention back to augmented people. The stage is set: The year is 2030, and this is the last peace the world will ever know.On America's west coast, rumors of a massive quake have risen to a fever pitch. In Asia, and now Europe, mutant disease continues an inexorable march. And in Prague, the entire world is balanced on a cliff edge. It may yet be that the fate of all mankind rests in the hands of Adam Jensen, one of the last vestiges of a Golden Age now fading into mere memory. Watched by Majestic 12 and their power-hungry leader Bob Page, manipulated on all sides, and not knowing who to trust, Adam must navigate an increasingly chaotic world in a desperate attempt to save it.This is the way the world ends.[expected to be very long and wrap up numerous loose ends from both HR and MD]





	1. Shadows

Chicago in 2052 was a bizarre amalgamation of old and new styles – sharp angles of the Twenties and bulbous Neo-Deco designs of the Thirties, the utilitarian straight lines of the Forties and a move toward neon-drenched designs in recent years. In the city’s central district, towers of glass and metal pierced low, water-filled clouds, as if encouraging them to continue emptying their contents onto the greasy streets. Advertisements in brilliant blue and yellow carpeted the sides of the buildings, many of them calling out products to anyone who passed by. One entire office building, dark for the night, displayed a massive projection for a Chicago-made food product.

Compared to the narrower streets of New York City, Chicago felt massive and open, one hand in the past and one in the future, and Paul Denton wasn’t sure he felt completely comfortable. He could have arrived using a UNATCO-sanctioned transport, but had opted to go as quietly as possible by traveling on the ground, in common taxis and personal transports, along wide freeways that cut through thinly-vegetated expanses. That choice had meant that the neon-spattered towers of glass and steel had appeared to devour the sky from his position close to the ground, a sky filled with light pollution and rain-filled clouds hovering beyond their apexes.

It was night by the time he finished his final stretch from Detroit to Chicago, where he was dropped off by the taxi at the head of a neon-soaked street at the base of a concrete canyon. Once the payment transfer had completed, the driverless taxi drove off into the sheets of rain, its aluminum shell glittering in a rainbow of colors. Paul examined the street with some hesitation – down into the gritty bowels of the city was where he needed to go. Neon-lit rivers of greasy water mingling with piles of trash coursed into the distance and crashed noisily into a storm drain.

Chicago was a strange-looking city compared to his home, with far too many colors and far too much light.

None of it looked at all appealing.

Yet, it was his fault he had ended up here. As his younger brother had recently finished graduation and now awaited his first op, Paul had been recruited instead to venture into the unfamiliar region of the Chicago metropolitan area. As one of two known nano-augs in the entire world and history of it, he could be sent alone, requiring fewer resources and cost. Besides, he had wanted the opportunity, anyway, given as it was by both his official employer, UNATCO, and the one he told no one about, the National Secessionist Forces. He could have refused, but his first instinct had instead been to do as they asked, and so he had, venturing out into America’s interior armed with only a pinch of real knowledge.

Somewhere in UNATCO’s files had been found evidence of a missing mech-aug from long ago. The records were corrupted and there were plenty of gaps, yet someone high up the chain had decided he was worth looking for – suddenly, _very_ suddenly, though they did a magnificent job of hiding that part.

No one would tell him why this Aug was so important.

He splashed through a river and crunched across trash, keeping his wits about him and doing his best not to look like a tourist. Augmented with nanites though he was, he could still be killed, and in a place like Chicago, he was reluctant to turn his back on any of the shadows around him. As it was, his long coat made him stand out enough – not terribly out of place in New York, with its numerous agent types, but it certainly didn’t belong here in Chicago, where normal people still lived and worked as though nothing had ever changed.

Halfway down the street, he found a pink neon sign, half of it rather dim, proclaiming the name of the nightclub he had been sent to find. It was a hole in the wall from the outside, but the intel had told him otherwise. “Shock Drop”, the place was called, a neon-drenched hidey-hole for criminals and anyone else who wanted to stay out of sight.

The perfect place for an information broker to scope and hide.

He opened the door to find a dimly-lit, haze-filled hallway that hurt a little when he breathed, though his augs quickly scrubbed any unfriendly chemicals before they could do damage. A quick swipe of his chit later, and he was in the main hall – a wide, hexagonal lounge area with stripper poles and the ever-present haze of cigarette smoke and old-school vapes wafting through the air. The ventilation system, nestled up in a red-lit ceiling, did its absolute best to siphon the myriad of toxins and mildly unpleasant scents out of the air, but judging from the clientele and poor lighting, it would be working overtime.

Paul shrugged off his coat and handed it to a man wearing the establishment’s logo. Another swipe of the chit, and the man disappeared behind a black door that gave a glimpse of a dim, blue-soaked room.

The air felt cool, but the music was too loud, sounding like it had been pulled from America’s distant past, and not the kind he usually liked, either. Again, he breathed in a haze that tasted unpleasant at best, then began to walk around the central area – furnished with a dance floor, brighter lights, and five poles, currently adorned with two men and three women in various states of undress – at his most leisurely possible pace.

The information broker, or brokers, he had been sent to find was known as “Shadow”. UNATCO had attempted to set up a meeting in New York, or really anywhere on the East Coast, but they had been refused, instead directed to come to this neon-drenched city for a face-to-face meeting with what they could only assume was a regional contact.

Memories and local chitchat would be what was left now.

There were so many people here tonight, most of them dressed in cheap fabrics and gaudy cuts. Some of them looked clean and interested in a good time, but too many others looked sickly in some way. Even the ones dressed well had the scent of alcohol and questionable substances in the fabric. Some had women attached to their arms, most of them just on the right side of “properly nourished”, but all of them barely so. The reality of life around the world hit hard here, he could see, with the ever-present threat of malnourishment and, of course, the Grey Death.

The bar, lit an unsightly orange with a blue countertop, was completely filled with patrons. Almost everyone was drinking something. A good half were louder than the others. Even on the floor, or scattered across the rest of the lounge, there was constant chatter and movement, and fresh lines of smoke and vapor twisted up to the garish ceiling, where it pooled before being sucked into oblivion.

At the back of the club stood a row of doors, all of them marked “private”. All of them locked from the inside, but could be opened with a staff key from the outside. Most were not currently in use, so he began searching for the signs he had been told about. Only when he found it – a neon triangle dangling below a handle – did he finally step away from the crowd and knock on the smooth black surface.

A few moments later, the door opened to a small room, just big enough for a handful of people to stand comfortably. As he stepped inside, eyes darting about as they automatically adjusted to the relative darkness, he grew aware of three things. The first was the décor – almost totally utilitarian, with smooth fabric on the seats that could be easily disinfected, and a hard, featureless floor. The second was a man on his left, bigger than him and wider, reminding him of Gunther, but lacking the outmoded mechanical augmentations the ogre sported – or rather, any visible ones.

The third was a portable volumetric projector, sitting in a mess of cables and little boxes, perched on the bench across from him. A thin power cord connected it to a standard socket beside the bench, but other than a steadily-blinking green light, the thing appeared to be turned off completely. In pockets on either side of the projector, giving no hint as to what they could contain, stood thick darkness, so deep that he felt it as a physical presence rather than a mere lack of light.

The door clicked shut behind him. “Is Shadow here?”

“You must be Mister Paul Denton. Heard _so_ much about you.” A thick, Chicagoan accent rolled off the tongue of someone he couldn’t see. The burr of electronic alteration accompanied the voice, betraying the presence of a disguise. “Everyone’s lookin’ for ‘Shadow’ these days.”

Paul looked at the ogre-like man. He was tall and huge, eyes hidden behind shades that had no visible support, and he stared back at the nano-aug without moving in the slightest. Except for the play of light across shiny fabric on his shoulders, he might not even be breathing. Paul thought he saw the evidence of scarring from mechanical augmentations before spotting a distinct groove along one side of the man’s face – removal, perhaps, if he had to guess.

“Is Shadow here?” he tried again.

“Shadows are everywhere, Mr. Denton. They’re attached to our bodies and shy from the light. They savor the dark and eat the hard edges of the world. Wanna narrow your search a little?”

He pressed his tongue briefly to his teeth. “Shadow, the person?”

“You sure Shadow’s a person?”

Paul’s patience thinned. “I am looking for the information broker known as ‘Shadow’. That’s all anyone knows about him, or her, or... _them_. I was told to come here to speak to... them.” As he spoke, he looked all around, hunting for the source of the voice, but though it came through clear, he couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

“Paul Denton, born in 2018, one brother.” A new voice spoke up this time, also run through a scrambler that disguised the nuances beyond the faint trace of an accent.

“First of the nano-augs,” the first voice said, “contender of the year for ‘you’re not my _real_ mom’, kind of a pacifist when you feel like it, member of UNATCO and the National–”

“Alright, I got it, thank you.”

A chuckle came from the darkness. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Denton?”

“I’m...” Again, he eyed the ogre. “...looking for someone who used to live in this area. Well, lived in Detroit.”

“That hardly narrows it down,” said the second voice. Paul considered it for a long moment, but he couldn’t decide whether it was male or female, and the accent was too faint to lay a finger on. “Detroit has contained countless individuals throughout its existence.

“And besides, weren't you taught geography in school? Detroit is almost three hundred miles from here, Mr. Denton. That ain’t exactly ‘in the area’.”

“No... no, of course not, but you happen to be one of the most well-connected information brokers in the region.” Pause. “And... one of the few that hasn’t been executed by Majestic 12.”

“Enemy of my enemy. So, he used to live in Detroit. Doesn’t narrow it down much at all, I agree. Name?”

Paul glanced at the ogre, then said, “Adam Jensen.”

A _hmm_ came from the darkness, briefly broken by the jolt of the electronic scrambler squelching. Paul wasn’t sure anyone else was physically here, but he still couldn’t pierce the darkness.

“Huh.” The heavily-accented voice sounded thoughtful. “Reachin’ back much? A mech-aug? That name ain’t been relevant in some twenty years. But first...” The sound of a clicking tongue reached him, still wallowing in the unpleasant crackling of the voice disguiser. “...payment. You got it?”

Paul hesitated, then reached into one of his deep pockets, feeling very exposed without his coat. A moment later, he withdrew a slim, dark vial that sloshed against his fingertips as he raised it. What he held was worth its weight in gold and more: Ambrosia, the lone vaccine for the Grey Death. Entire shipments of it were regularly raided by everyone from the NSF to common street thugs, and in the latter case, it usually turned out to be a gory mess in the aftermath, but even they were known to have escaped with at least a handful of it.

As he rolled the vial into his palm and held it out for inspection, he felt a twinge of unease. Necessary or not, giving away such an important resource to a complete unknown was something he didn’t like.

“No, no, not so fast,” the broker – or brokers – interjected when Paul made to toss it. “Give it to Vlad there.”

Paul did as he was told. “Vlad?”

A chuckle reached him. Paul strained his eyesight, trying to pierce the gloom, but it proved utterly impenetrable, making more unease crawl up his spine. No form of darkness was too much for his augmented vision to penetrate, so he suspected some sort of deliberate shroud, clouding his ability to use his augmentations in a way that would allow him to see anything. The thought of someone being able to do such a thing sent a prickle down his spine.

“Just a little joke of mine. Vlad the Impaler.” The chuckle repeated, but humorless now.

Paul decided right then that he didn’t like Shadow at all. The blanket of darkness that engulfed the room, the complete ease of the voices, and the calm confidence in the same all painted a picture that said he was far more vulnerable than he had initially supposed. This little room made him feel cramped, while Vlad – if that really was his name – hovering in complete silence reminded him of a Man In Black.

Trying to keep from looking how he felt, Paul glanced at Vlad again, eyes adjusting to the light. He came out in detail, and he had just finished tucking the vial away when their eyes, presumably, met. Vlad just looked at him, face expressionless.

It took every ounce of willpower to keep from taking a step back.

“Now, then.” The voices brought his reluctant attention back. “Adam Jensen. That’s a name nobody’s said in good on twenty years, now. He disappeared in the Thirties. What could, uh, ‘UNATCO’ want with him?”

“A man filled with mechanical augmentations would hardly be useful in a world like this.” A third voice had joined the fray, this one distinctly female, but so heavily disguised that it may as well have come from a crude machine. “All the same, Adam Jensen had useful genes and powerful abilities.”

“His name only recently came up.” Paul folded his arms, resisting the urge to move away from the mech-aug standing beside him. “My bosses did a good job of hiding how sudden, but not completely. It seems they have reason to believe he may still be around, causing trouble. The...” A pause, then, “...NSF decided that, if UNATCO believed he was important enough to send me, he might be a valuable asset to them as well.”

“A mech-aug, Mr. Denton. You’re talking about something that’s almost totally obsolete now. Aren’t nano-augs like yourself the way of the future, supposed to be far superior to the... what do they say... ‘grotesque’ cybernetic prosthesis of the previous generation?” the gently-accented voice said.

“They didn’t tell me,” Paul couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. “Neither UNATCO nor the NSF said a word. Don’t know if they picked up a trail or what, but they sent me here to find out what I could.”

“There’s plenty of good reasons, but you won’t hear them here.”

Paul blinked. “Not... here?”

“Too many eyes and ears. Sorry, Vlad.”

Paul gave the ogre another glance, but he only nodded. “You–”

“You’ll need to meet a liaison. We’ve got your private Infolink frequency, so we’ll send you the first waypoint.”

A jolt raced through his body as he heard the _beep_ of a received transmission, directly following Shadow’s words. He brought a hand up to the side of his head without thinking. “That frequency is _secure_ ,” he snarled. “How did–”

“You’d be surprised what people give up for a little Ambrosia. You ready?”

Head swimming, Paul deeply considered diving blindly into the darkness, and all that stopped him from lunging was the knowledge that the huge ogre still stood unobtrusively beside him. That gave him enough time to realize what he had been about to do and regain control of himself.

“You want me to meet you somewhere?” he said, more to distract himself than anything. _Breathe_.

“Yes. No address. We will provide you directions.”

“Covering your tracks?”

“Information brokers who aren’t corpses are a rare commodity these days, Mr. Denton. We intend to keep ourselves in that group.” The owner of the voice chuckled dryly. “Once you leave the club, you will receive further instructions. Our Chicago representative – for lack of a better term – will send you what you need. Ensure you are not followed.”

Paul thought of the coat waiting at the front of the club. He would need to check it. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Denton, and farewell.”

The nano-aug’s eyes widened when the pockets of darkness simply winked soundlessly out of existence, and the green light on the projector flipped to red. No other sound beside his own breathing and Vlad’s followed; he looked at the corners of the room, but could see nothing that could have created such a shroud. Had it actually been there, or merely a projection? What was the point of all this?

Then, he exhaled, soothing his nerves and centering himself. Shadow was a broker, a powerful one, probably an entire network of men and women around the world. They had every reason to play games and cover their tracks, every reason to throw off a scent or divert suspicion. One misstep would mean the likelihood of death or worse – Majestic 12 might find their network useful _now_ , but that could change in an instant.

This network of shadows would stay in the safety of their namesake and carry on. They probably knew the Triads, the NSF, and perhaps they had helped UNATCO.

They were useful. It was best that it stayed that way.

He squared his shoulders, painfully aware of his mostly-bared arms with their marks of nano-augmentation, and went back out into the crowd to the place where he had dropped off his coat. A quick pat-down, followed by a far more lengthy visual and tactile examination of every possible hiding spot, convinced him there was nothing to worry about planted on it, or at least, nothing obvious enough to find for the moment.

He pulled it back on, the fabric slightly scratchy against his skin, and went back out into the dark alley.

The jingle of an incoming call echoed in his skull. “You should see the information I sent you on your HUD now. It’ll update as you go. Try not to get lost.” And with a _beep_ , they disconnected.

Paul looked all around, not enjoying the feeling of having his relative privacy so violated. Enough people, those in the NSF and UNATCO included, knew his private frequency that he could completely believe someone had exchanged it for some Ambrosia. It was hard to fault whoever had done it, knowing the rarity of the vaccine. Still, having a complete stranger, no matter his connections, casually connect and inject information – which could, though unlikely, contain a _payload_ that would be damaging to his systems – unnerved him to no end.

But he shook those thoughts away and decided to concentrate on the now. Later, he could tear Shadow a new one, if he felt like it. For now, he needed to focus on getting his information.

The HUD updated each time he reached a new waypoint on his path, directing him this way and that. Sometimes, he felt it carried him in a circle, looping him around a building, only to return to the same street, a level higher, or something similar, but he did travel further and further from Shock Drop. The rain continued to come down, icy cold even through the coat as he pulled it tight around his torso, forming rivulets and puddles that reflected the bright advertisements and wash of neon that pervaded every inch of the city.

It was a hive, of course. Most major cities around the world were like this, with skyscrapers where the rich lived high above the filth of the streets below, but he had trouble thinking of it as necessarily bad. With the ruination of the world population in the Thirties and early Forties and an extremely slow rebound as birth rates once more began to climb, to be in a city where anything felt alive was refreshing.

Weaving his way through the crowds, dodging automated cabs and small cars, he continued into the downtown district, filled with throngs of people. A few questionable stores stood near the center, while men and women in tight-fit, attractive clothes cooed at passerby – including him, he discovered, as one of the women, her hair done up in tight curls and brushing her bare shoulders despite the rain, made her way to him.

“No thank you, ma’am,” he said, making distance as her hands went for him.

“Oh, too bad. You’re a _cute_ one.” She bit her lip, looking at him with large, gray eyes. “Always did have a thing for trench coats and beards. Something about that combo, you know?”

“Ah... yes, ma’am.” He really should be used to female attention by now, since he knew there were a few in UNATCO alone who made comments when they thought he couldn’t hear, but having never carved out the time for a relationship that was anything besides professional, he still had trouble. “Excuse me.”

Leaving her pouting face behind, he followed the next waypoint into a multi-use skyscraper. The first ten floors were shops and businesses, while everything else, towering high into the sky, was entirely apartments. Nothing to write home about, either, with a simple gray lobby, dim halls, and doors that creaked. The elevator worked, though it was cramped, with an unsightly charcoal-gray floor, depositing him on the thirty-sixth floor.

Paul stepped off the elevator onto a floor that made odd thumping noises with his footsteps. The hall was as dimly lit as the others, but at the far end, he spotted a window overlooking the downtown skyline. He followed the last waypoint to a door marked “36-11”, raised a hand, and knocked after a moment’s hesitation. Was it possible Shadow had been here all along, or had he somehow gotten here before him?

Or maybe it was another trick. An information broker had no reason to be honest, and even now, he wasn’t sure he would get anything more than the basics out of these mysterious beings.

The door opened. Vlad stood on the other side, startling Paul a little, but he moved to the side, letting the nano-aug step through. In the slightly better light of the apartment, Paul now saw the ogre _had_ mechanical augmentations, but only one was really visible, being his left arm. It was badly battle-scarred, its shell long replaced by bits and pieces of others – if it had ever had a logo, it was long gone by now. The rest of him was covered in stained fabric that looked as though it had been long cobbled together just enough to keep his modesty.

As Paul stepped inside, wondering how Vlad had gotten here, the door shut, and he looked around. The apartment had no furnishings besides a pair of folding chairs next to a picture window and a television hanging on the left wall. In the corners were stacks of cardboard boxes, most of them taped closed. An empty pizza box was flattened atop a stack of other flattened boxes, resting neatly near the door. On the right, he saw a door leading to another room, currently closed.

He moved away from the pool of light and into the shadows, approaching the window. Its blinds were down, creating a slat pattern on the floor and allowing bluish light to pool between them. As his eyes finished adjusting, he realized there was nothing of any real interest here at all – featureless walls, featureless floor, so utilitarian that it felt alien. Nothing looked like it belonged anywhere near a home of any kind.

He looked at the doorway, only to find that a stack of cardboard boxes blocked his view. There was just enough room to squeeze past on the left of them, but otherwise, it was inky blackness beyond.

His Infolink came to life. “Have a seat, Mr. Denton.”

Paul frowned, but did as he was told, picking the left chair. Vlad moved away from the door to stand in the corner, still as a statue, and in the oppressive darkness, he was more unnerving than ever. The door swung open without a sound; Paul watched as a man came into the room with steady, deliberate steps. He stood almost as tall as Paul, dressed in a gray shirt and black coat fastened to the middle of his chest, a hand tucked in a pocket of worn canvas cargo pants while the other swung at his side.

As he came into the light, Paul took in more of his features. Clean-shaven, except for a spot of hair on the chin. Young, but he couldn’t tell just how young, and, because of the existence of rejuvenation tech, it didn’t mean much. Dark eyes, spots of black in a pale face. Hair, cropped short, a patch of void in the unfriendly light.

“Welcome to my temporary abode.” The man sank down into the other chair and crossed a leg over the other, hands folded in his lap. “I know this city better than anyone, so I gotta keep on the move. Probably don’t know how that goes, what with you being with, uh, UNATCO and all.”

Paul shifted his weight. The darkness, ogre in the corner, and unknowns beyond the door made him feel rather like a caged animal, but he knew he could overpower this Natch. It was the ogre he thought might give him a hard time. Worst came to worst, he could tear a hole in the wall to escape, but even then, he had to wonder if Shadow could still come after him. In a connected city like Chicago, another big city under the eternal and watchful eye of the Illuminati and, to some extent, Majestic 12, he doubted he could get away without being seen.

“So, venturing a guess, Shadow is _not_ a person?”

The man shrugged. “Shadow’s a person and not a person. We’re all Shadow, but any one of us can be called ‘Shadow’. But if it makes you feel better, call me the ‘Chicago Shadow’, ‘cuz that’s what I am.” He tapped a finger on his chest. “Or just, y’know, Shadow. But you didn’t hear it from me, now.”

“And what of the others?”

Shadow snorted. “There’s this thing called ‘other countries’–”

“Fine, I get it.” Paul sighed. “All of you keep your secrets, if it so pleases you.” He wondered briefly why no one had ever told him about the “Shadows” before, but dismissed that thought almost immediately. UNATCO and the NSF had their reasons for doing everything, including never telling him about something such as this. And what did it even matter? On most days, it was totally inconsequential. “I get the feeling you tell _us_ what to do.”

Shadow’s lips formed a thin smile he didn’t like. “Shadow might not answer when someone calls, or Shadow might tell the big kid on the block what to do, and the big kid has to do it, or he gets nothin’. I know what you’re thinkin’: why’s no one mentioned us before? It’s because the chances of getting us to cooperate...” He raised an eyebrow. “...is real slim.”

“You’ve been mentioned plenty–”

Shadow cut him off with a short, quiet laugh. “Nice try, Mr. Denton. Maybe I should keep you around for _fun_.” When Paul stared at him, both eyebrows went up. “What, you think _anyone_ wants to admit they work with _us_? Didn’t they tell you this job was totally confidential? No tattling, no discussin’ with anyone? Not even your brother? We do what we want and can be anywhere we want, at any time, and get anyone talkin’ for the right price. Come on, now.”

The hairs on his arms stood on end. “They... might have mentioned–”

“Like I said.” Shadow’s eyebrows went back down, inky lines over pinpoints of darkness. “We always get what we want.”

“I’m... getting that impression.” Paul frowned. “It’s why I’m here.”

Shadow tipped his head. “Now you’re getting it.”

Paul flexed the fingers of one hand a moment. His superiors had told him he _had_ to travel here to do his job, but not much beyond that. Had Shadow – the Shadows – refused to speak except in person, then? Had Shadow even requested _him_ to come along, refusing to accept anyone else?

But those were just guesses. The reality could really be anything, and he might not ever know.

“So, about Adam...”

“Not so fast.” The man leaned back. “One thing at a time. Start with giving me a guess as why they want him, huh?”

Paul frowned. “You want guessing games?”

“ _Y_ _ou_ want _me_ to tell _you_ a _story_. It’s gonna be a _long_ story, so humor me.”

He hesitated and glanced at the skyline again. From what he understood, Adam Jensen was an unknown that had been interesting for some time now, but no one had gone pursuing any real leads until now, leading to him having been sent personally to oversee information gathering. There had been no hint as to what had caused the sudden interest.

What need did Shadow have to tell him a lengthy story just to explain why anyone cared about an osbolete mech-aug? While he certainly liked stories, it seemed pointless.

And yet, he knew better than to push back. The information brokers would only be so patient, and maybe there was more to the story than he initially thought.

Natural curiosity overruled his remaining protests. Jensen had last been heard from in the early Thirties, with a whisper here and there throughout the rest of the decade, before he finally disappeared altogether in the Forties. Those had been chaotic decades, with entire populations dying off and massive upheavals in society that had long been brushed over and forgotten. He wasn’t even sure those whispers had been more than rumors.

Shadow had information about the old world – a world he could barely remember seeing glimpses of before everything had begun to fall apart. He had been sheltered during those early years, and knowledge of the old world had been quietly swept away by the powers that be.

Whatever it was that had caused his superiors and others to be interested in a man who had risen and fallen before the end of all things, the story was probably worth telling.

“His augmentations were top of the line,” he murmured at last, “and he disappeared.”

Shadow nodded slowly, the smirk slipping off his face. “Mr. Jensen disappeared in the Thirties, yeah, and he’s out there somewhere, probably. Never found the body and all. Could be useful, even to me.” At those words, a new expression briefly replaced the serious one and making Paul uneasy again. “You’re right, Mr. Jensen was packed full of mil-grade augs that made him king of the hill. Master of stealth. Good at talkin’ his way out. _Pest_.”

“What do you mean by ‘pest’?”

“UNATCO and the NSF aren’t the only ones. Majestic 12 has been hunting him for years. He stirred the pot and got a lot done before he vanished into the winds, you see.” Lips peeling back from his teeth, Shadow leveled Paul with a look that reminded him of a well-fed predator sizing him up – no immediate danger, but he felt it all the same. “Mr. Jensen had so much he could offer our world. Just think if you had him on your side, huh. Anyone who had him could raise hell and no one would be able to stop him. Maybe a little brainwashin’ will do the trick.”

“Are we talking about MJ12, or _you_?”

Shadow’s mouth twisted into a Cheshire grin he really didn’t like. “One thing at a time, Mr. Denton. Now, on top of the augs, he had smarts, skill, and could turn into a living wrecking ball. He’s an asset. Also had a few other things goin’ for him. As long as there’s no body to find, everyone’ll hunt ‘til the world ends.”

Paul nodded. “So, why a story, then?”

“Because to really, _really_ understand why everyone wants him, we gotta go back, _way_ back, to the start of the Thirties. But before we do...” Shadow looked over into the darkness. “Vlad? Can you grab a couple refreshments? And help yourself, old man – gotta keep those augs nice and fit.”

Vlad thumped away into the darkness, and as they waited, Shadow looked at him again. “Not much survived of Mr. Jensen or his posse. Got some records here and there, some of it under aliases. Had to cross-check against photos and public records that made it through the chaos. You ain’t the first to ask about him.”

Paul couldn’t help himself. “Who else did?”

Again, the other man grinned, shark-like. “Got more Ambrosia in those ample pockets?”

The nano-aug sighed and shook his head.

“Then you’re gonna keep guessin’.” The grin faded. “I lost both my parents to the Grey Death years back. Lot of folks lost family, friends, and the whole time, people like Bob Page settle back and enjoy. It’s why we do what we do.”

Paul looked at the can for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s life in this world. All we can do is keep trying to help, while staying on everyone’s kinda-good side. I don’t wanna die from the Grey Death any more than anyone else here.” Shadow tipped his head. “You kinda look like him,” he added, a faint, curious note entering his voice, “but it’s just the beard and the hair, I guess.”

Paul studied him a moment. There had been one photo in the UNATCO vaults, an official one from a memo back when the organization was simply Task Force 29, of a man staring back at the viewer with a face as serious as his brother’s always was. Now, as he mentally compared his reflection with the photo, he thought the resemblance _was_ there, but he couldn’t decide if it was too slight to be more than coincidence.

Vlad came thumping back over to them and handed a pair of well-chilled cans to each man. Paul inspected it thoroughly before deciding it hadn’t been tampered with and cracked it open. A bland scent reached him, but when he took a swig, it felt cool, tangy, and not very sweet on his tongue. Real fruit, then, or something very close to it, without the bitter aftertaste of synthetic sweeteners. Shadow had _good_ connections, then, or at the very least enough credits to purchase real fruit.

The ogre opened his can and took a sip. In the silence, the sloshing of liquid against metal felt too loud.

“Now that that’s done and settled...” Shadow’s body relaxed as he took a lazy swig out of the can. “Like it? Amazing what you can do with a little Ambrosia shuffled in the right hands, huh?”

Paul decided he didn’t much like this man, and wondered if he had never been told about the Shadow Network because of the possible danger. Here Shadow was, sitting in front of a hyper-advanced Aug threaded with nanotech, and yet he looked as calm as if he sat among mere schoolchildren and discussed the alphabet. He was slender, too, and lean, but Paul could still see evidence of wiry muscle beneath the form-fitting fabric. Whatever it was that put him at ease, Paul didn’t want to know what it was. Anyone who could so calmly look a living tank in the eye and _smile_ about it was someone he needed to keep his guard up around, even if the man in question _was_ just a Natch.

“Enemy of my enemy, then?” Paul ventured.

“Not quite what I meant. I’m everyone’s frenemy, you see.” Shadow grinned and sloshed the liquid. “Even our dear friends, Majestic 12? Yeah, they use me, too. But you see, I only give them what I want ‘em to know. Benefits of playing all sides is that no one can afford to chop your head off.” He shrugged. “Theoretically.”

“You’re stalling,” Paul told him sternly.

“Hardly.” Again, he took a swig, then set it on the floor. “Like I said, long story. Had to piece it together from pre-chaos records, word on the street, and back-alley brokering, but I got it all right here. So.” He raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Jensen’s got quite a story. Did you know his body couldn’t reject mechanical augmentations, like at all? Medical miracle.”

“Shadow,” Paul said, trying not to sound anxious.

At this, the other man’s dark eyes took on a hard edge, and he looked back at Paul without any hint of fear or lack of confidence. “Remember whose domain you’re in. Chicago is mine. This whole region is networked. In five minutes, I can be out of here, and you’d never find me again. And if you think your fancy augs will save you, I wouldn’t be so quick to jump on that. If we want you gone, you’ll drop off the Earth. So settle down, relax, and enjoy the scenery, will you?”

Paul reminded himself to be patient. “Of course.”

“Just makin’ sure.” Shadow shrugged. “I’m a nightmare, Mr. Denton. I’ve started wars and found ways to end them. I’ve directed lives and got some powerful folk real angry. I got this city mapped like it’s part of me.” Smiling in a disturbingly disarming way, he tapped the side of his head with a finger. “It’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth, and we got plenty of friends.”

The threat was clear, so he calmly took another sip.

“Good, now _that’s_ out of the way, too. Now, about Adam Jensen, and why everyone wants him. What we found frankly makes it amazing he didn’t die fifty times over with some of the stuff he got into. But he had good fortune or somethin’ on his side, and he kept escaping. Now, we all _assume_ he’s still alive because nobody’s found proof of his death yet, but there ain’t been much proof of him bein’ livin’ either, so we’ll just go with him bein’ some kind of ‘ghost’. We need to figure out why the sudden interest. That sound okay to you?”

Paul looked at him. “I’m listening.”

Shadow nodded. “He’s an asset, Mr. Denton, a real valuable one. He’s caused no end of strife for everyone that had to tussle with him, and he knows things he can’t be allowed to live for and all, but there’s more to his story than that. We have to start in Prague, actually, in early 2030, before the big California quake. Calm before the storm and all. Some peace right before everything went from the frying pan to the fire.”

In that sparsely-furnished apartment, with the cityscape of Chicago spread out beside him and the blinds painting blurry patterns across his body, tone never drifting, Shadow began his story.


	2. The Brink

VersaLife’s Roccasecca Beach facility was a flagship on the American west coast, with pleasant aesthetics settled among the angry surface of the Pacific Ocean. Organic curves and long lines formed the bones of the facility, upon which had been constructed massive buildings that could survive anything nature threw at them, typhoons and tsunamis included. It had been built offshore, nearly two miles out into open water, on pylons driven deep into the seabed that were continuously thrashed by the powerful Pacific waves. There were only two ways here: a helipad connected to the main building, or by boat. Both of them were heavily monitored, and no one could enter without _someone_ knowing exactly who was on the transport, what for, and where from.

Bob Page had opted to travel by VTOL, enjoying the spot of cool air and sunshine in California’s early morning, as the craft crossed the shoreline onto the open sea. He hadn’t been to Roccasecca Beach since shortly after it finished construction just over a year ago, though he doubted it had changed much.

Today was more than an inspection of the facility’s obvious functions, though none but the Council and a handful of confidantes knew that. The artificial island carpeted with greenery perched atop thick pylons, several of which were partially hollow. Access to them was so heavily restricted that even finding the entrances was virtually impossible, if one didn’t know the architecture of the facility. Hidden beneath seams and behind false walls, the labyrinth of narrow passages and security scans led down to some of the best-kept and most valuable secrets the facility had.

A lurch in his stomach told him the VTOL had slowed to a halt, and now lowered itself to the helipad. The engines spun down, but Page didn’t wait, opting to open the side door and hop out into the damp air on his own. His schedule ran too tight and he had too much to do to deal with pointless fanfare – the curse of being the CEO of a multinational company with a monopoly on the only remaining anti-rejection drug.

“Sir, if you would–” One of his Tarvos bodyguards tried to get his attention, but Page wordlessly took his one bag out of the other’s hands and slung the strap over his shoulder.

The Roccasecca Beach Facility consisted of two large buildings and three smaller ones. The two large buildings were built both above the water and under it, containing everything from tech labs to massive testing grounds. The one on the right held the tech- and pharma-focused operations, including work on an AIDS vaccine and the continued study of the Chimera Project, while the left building was functionally a black site, with all underwater levels locked out to anyone not holding high-level authorization.

That building was where projects ranging from the D-Project to research on the Morpheus Initiative took place. That would be his second stop of the day.

For now, he turned his attention to A-Building.

The path winding away from the helipad slashed through bright green patches of seeded, well-manicured grass, a jarring contrast of color against the white-tipped Pacific waves. Bleached stone slabs cut into geometric shapes formed the path and followed the slight curve of the artificial island in a bow from right to left toward the building. The taste of salt was heavy and sour on his tongue; he squinted and wished he had thought to wear sunglasses today. The sun seemed amplified by everything around him, flashing on the tossing waves.

Nearly to the building, he looked up. It was all strong lines and boxes, its apex ending at a blunt square a good distance above him, glittering in the sun.

“Good morning, Mr. Page,” came a low voice, drawing his attention to a woman in VersaLife’s fashionable uniform as she strode toward him.

He immediately smiled at her. “Clara, my dear, how good to see you,” he said, extending a hand. She took it, her thoughtful and serious expression never wavering. The long-haired, large-eyed woman almost never smiled, but her sternness and extensive knowledge kept her teams in check. He had long ago stopped trying to get her to call him “Bob”, as it usually just ended in a nod and immediately moving on to the subject at hand.

“I know you’re on a tight schedule, Mr. Page,” she said, falling in step beside him as they continued into the building. “How much information do you already know?”

“I read some reports, but I would prefer to hear it from you, and see it myself.”

Clara glanced at him with a nod. She was the lead manager for multiple projects, including the Orchid and a handful of others, though she spent most of her time in an office. Much like him, she couldn’t spare the time to get her hands dirty much anymore, so she assigned leads and entrusted them with multi-million-dollar projects that chewed through resources he wouldn’t have if not for VersaLife’s monopoly. She disseminated his orders as was proper – he was too high up in the company hierarchy to have direct control, so she took what he gave her and distributed it as she best saw fit. Though she had management of many departments and projects, she had yet to make a mistake, and he had long decided his choice to put her in that position had been utterly correct.

The first room in the building was a vaulted atrium bathed in sunlight and made of geometric shapes. Everything was white and gold, except for the blooming plants and vibrant green vines that clung to some of the walls. Water spilled down through transparent walls, upon which had been printed “VersaLife” and the company’s distinct logo. The use of fresh water and extensive greenery were all indicators of the company’s incredible wealth – resources growing increasingly rare outside the cities, often by design. The consolidation of such natural wealth meant that every visitor felt the power of the Illuminati, even if they didn’t know who they were, a reminder that there were those infinitely more powerful who bequeathed such things as they saw fit, driving the people to population centers to be monitored and directed.

With the help of some of the projects being tended to below his feet, there would finally be peace.

Of course, he and Lucius DeBeers did not always see eye to eye on how to go about doing that, but he bid his time and set his eyes on the ultimate goal. With the help of Majestic 12, functionally the sciences and technology arm of the Council, they would achieve all of it eventually.

That was, of course, assuming DeBeers didn’t keep stumbling about like the old, sickly fool he was.

“Mr. Page, if you would?”

“Ah, sorry, my dear, my mind is drifting away on so many other things.” He couldn’t help injecting the charm, though she looked as unimpressed as always. “Could you repeat that, please?”

They stopped in the middle of the lobby atrium. Sunlight shafted through the windows, painting brilliant golden patterns as triangles across the floor – an aesthetic choice he had grown to like with time. Their simple geometry fit well with the minimalist look they had striven for here. As he looked at her, someone came up and took his bag, then left again just as silently, disappearing into some mysterious back room he didn’t care about.

“It’s best if I bring you down to the main labs,” she told him. “Reed’s team is currently elbows-deep in the Chimera, and they’ve also been splitting their time with Angelo's team to get some vaccines built faster. Reed herself has also been to B-Building to take some time with the D-Project as of late.”

“Has she?” He couldn’t prevent the irritable note from entering his tone.

“You brought her onto it, sir, and she hasn’t been able to touch it extensively for nearly two years. She simply wants to make sure it goes well.” Clara headed for the trio of elevators on the far side of the atrium. Stairwells and halls connected to the aboveground facilities, while these elevators either went up to the apex offices or down below the water to the labs. Unbeknownst to most, the labs for A-Building were linked underwater to B-Building, but access was so restricted that even finding the entrance was a puzzle in itself.

Once they stepped into the elevator, leaving his personal guards behind, she touched the panel to descend to the labs, clasped her hands in front of her, and continued, “The D-Project is proceeding well so far. Subjects are exhibiting genetic markers that indicate they will not suffer from DDS. Are you certain you don’t wish to try mechanical augmentations first as a prelude to the nanite project?”

“Certain,” Page said firmly, “since _those_ are not the future. Nano-augmentations will overcome flesh and metal alike, and will turn mankind into gods, but first, we must be certain it _works_. DDS isn’t even _related_ –”

“The same genetic markers apply. Remember Patient X, Mr. Page.”

“Yes, yes, of course I remember.” Page shook his head impatiently and stared at the elevator doors, which opened a moment later. The hallway ahead was as white and prim as the upper levels, but otherwise bare except for a potted plant in a corner here and there. Though they weren't immediately visible, he knew the hall was laced with security systems, from thermal tripwires to pressure sensors, that would make it impossible to avoid tripping the silent alarm. Overkill, perhaps, what with it already being difficult to get into the facility as it was, but he accepted it as a worthwhile expense to keep Majestic 12’s secrets safe from any who might seek to misuse them.

Past frosted glass office doors and opaque blast-proof seals they went, all the way down to where a small, triangular atrium awaited them. The ceiling was perhaps eight feet above the floor and filled with white light, giving no hint to the proximity of the cold, powerful waters of the Pacific pressing down on them.

“Reed’s team is just down here.” Clara swiped her keycard at a massive black door and entered a PIN. The door then swung open on hissing hydraulics, revealing to them a small clean room. A minute later, after being prepared by discreet machines for entry, the next door, smaller than the first, swung open slowly. “When last I saw her, she was down at the far end here, working on the Chimera.”

Page nodded politely as she droned on a moment longer. At first, the Chimera and D-Project were functionally the same, but in the past year, they had merged in some areas and further split in others. The Chimera’s intention was to integrate the anti-rejection gene from Patient X into normal humans, but the rapid rejection that occurred when taken on its own had caused a branch of it to be split off into the blackbox Orchid Project. Until the Chimera could be rendered harmless, it would have to be kept entirely separate from the D-Project – they couldn’t risk Majestic 12’s handcrafted samples dying, forcing a restart of a cloning process that couldn’t be accelerated.

As a man who used minor neural implants already and longed for the extensive nano-augmentations his team was working on, he had a particular and personal interest in seeing the Chimera live up to its name and bequeath upon him the next step in human evolution. The subjects of the D-Project would be a proof-of-concept, and the need for Neuropozene would eventually be eliminated entirely.

For a moment, he thought of their operatives – heavily-augmented agents that strained resources to maintain due to their heavy need for Neuropozene – and how freeing it would be to cut them away from their need. They could be deployed in the most remote parts of the world with no need of supply chains, they could not be weakened or killed by simply taking away their Neuropozene, and they would have perfect loyalty once the modifications to the killswitch were complete.

There would be no more need for fear.

And with all of that would come the dawn of a new era, one without chaos like that caused by independent biotech firms or private armies. And he, not DeBeers, would be at the center of it all.

“Bob! It’s good to see you. Kind of a surprise visit.”

He snapped out of his thoughts to see a woman smiling at him, which he returned. She was shorter than him and thin, with narrow features and intelligent eyes, her VersaLife lab gear clinging to her frame in a most attractive way that emphasized the slender length of her fine legs. “Ah, Dr. Reed, it’s good to see you, too, my dear,” he said, as warmly as he could. “I just wanted to see how some of these projects were coming along.”

“Ah... yes, coming along.” Her face fell a little. “We’ve been pulling eighty-plus-hour weeks on these vaccines, and even with all these fresh samples, we’re struggling to catch up. It’s better than it was a month ago, at least, but this TB strain, and that flu that keeps... changing itself. It’s a pandemic waiting to happen.”

“Haven’t you seen the reports? It’s already sweeping across third-world countries. Hundreds of thousands have died, and millions are infected, but it was projected to be far worse. What vaccines we do have, have indeed helped.”

“Millions are...” The color drained from her face. “Ye– yes, of... of course they’ve helped.”

“Picus reports good numbers, my dear. Don’t let it bother you.”

She nodded. “Not me, Bob, I have enough on my mind.” She gestured at the nearest bench, encased in glass, in which he spotted multiple vials and dishes. The room was long, but narrow, filled with rows and rows of benches and entrances to other labs. He felt exposed without lab gear and a mask like many others were wearing, but knew it wouldn’t make much difference whether he touched something wrong, or breathed in the wrong vapor, or brushed an insecure sample. There had already been a few incidents here as it was.

He met her eyes. “And how, then, is the Chimera coming along?”

The skin around her eyes tightened. “We’re making progress,” she said, pausing to wipe the back of her wrist across her brow. “The actual instance of rejection is happening with less force, and we’ve managed to isolate the necessary gene from the Patient X samples and files. The only issue is integration, but I have a couple of people working on just that. I’ve been bouncing between a few projects myself, so I can’t keep as good an eye out.”

“That’s alright, my dear, whatever helps it along. I trust your judgment and your skills.” Smiling a little wider, he started to reach for her shoulder, then thought better of it. Oh, but hge did like her – her brilliant mind, her dedication to her work, her long legs, and how she trusted her employer never, ever to lie to her. Total faith. If she wasn’t so dedicated to her work, and so leery of overstepping imagined professional bounds, perhaps their only interactions wouldn’t be with others watching. “I hope you’re taking time off for yourself?”

“I haven’t really stopped working for a while, but, ah... maybe I will. Thanks for the concern.”

“Of course. Don’t overwork yourself, Dr. Reed.”

“I’ll try not to. Things need to get done, but...” She hesitated, then sighed. “...I’ll do what I can.”

“Good, good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must continue my rounds, but remember, I am always just a click away.”

“Yes, you are. Thank you, Bob.”

He nodded, then moved past her to continue down the rows of tables and labs, listening to Clara talk. The vaccines were taking too long, she said, which he expected with how rapidly the diseases were mutating in the wild. Lab samples were prevented from mutating, and there was talk of ceasing that out of desperation, but Page had long ago decided the labs were far too valuable to allow the spread of infectious diseases and shot down any attempts at doing so. They would simply have to keep collecting samples and working hard.

And what did it matter if a few million died here and there? It was that many million fewer to worry about later.

After listening to her status updates, they exited the lab and continued down the hall. Clara spoke up again, saying, “Not letting the samples mutate is causing problems with our ability to keep up.”

“Clara, my dear, we’ve been over this numerous times now. Right now, if there’s a containment breach, we have vaccines for it. If the samples mutate, that will no longer be the case. Trust me, Clara, it’s better this way.”

“And what about the spreading pandemic?”

Page waved a hand. “For now, push that from your mind. If you dwell on the death, you will lose sight of the living, and all of this will be for naught. It’s all in Asia and third-world countries for now – let’s try to work to keep if that way, hmm? Now, let’s go see the pylons.”

At the end of the hallway, they turned into a much narrower maintenance hall, which could only open with her keycard, and passed electrical boxes, conduit, and ductwork as they headed for a door at the far end. Through the door and down the left hall, they crossed a small office area, brightly lit and mostly empty, passed the server room, and navigated a trio of doors before entering an atrium surrounded by incredibly thick glass. The grim darkness of the Pacific surrounded them, the only light being what reached from the surface and what shone into the water from the facility’s outside lights, the glow pitiful at even this depth and doing little to pierce the void.

Page paused just before the door leading to another part of the facility, hovering just beyond the bulkhead and linked with sturdy support beams and bundled conduit.

The pylon supporting A-Building was massive, driven deep into the earth and black against the murky light. It continued down beneath his feet, plunging into the cold darkness and well out of sight. It had been constructed to survive all types of disasters, from tidal waves to massive quakes. Roccasecca Beach had been built with incredible speed and efficiency, always with a mind toward what was to come. Scheduled for later this year, the calamity would finally bring the rebellious United States under their control. Under _his_ control.

“Excuse me, Clara, if you would,” he said, and continued to the door to swipe his keycard. It unlocked, letting him through into what amounted to a box stacked on pylons of its own – the most private place in the facility, and one in which he, the only one in all of Page Industries who knew everything all the time, could indulge in his power.

The door sealed shut behind him.

For a few moments, only the cold white light from the ceiling greeted him. Shortly, though, it dimmed, and holographic panels in yellow and orange appeared above consoles full of buttons and readouts. They enveloped him in a half-circle of glittering lights; he stepped into the center of it and called up information on the pylons from the central panel. A few taps later, and he was looking at miles of powerful depth charges, planted a very specific distance apart, all primed to go off at their designated time. Once the chain reaction began, there would be no stopping it.

Page’s fingers itched for a cigarette, though even the CEO was not above the health and safety regulations of the facility, as he scrolled through the list of charges. Several indicated minor damage, while one appeared to be heavily so, provoking him to make a mental note to have those ones checked and repaired.

Smaller ones had been set up over the past few years to trigger increasingly powerful quakes in the region, raising fears, stoked by Picus, that “the big one” was coming.

His lips briefly twitched around an imaginary cigarette as he eyed a topographical map of the Pacific Coast. A large and very troublesome section of the population would be drowned in the ocean’s cold waters, while he had already made plans to take several Silicon Valley heads – powerful leaders of social and tech companies – away from the area on a “business trip” before it happened. With an already on-edge nation reeling from such an economic disaster, it wouldn’t take much for the Council to snap the nation’s leaders to a leash.

The Roccasecca Beach facility would be relocated to the middle of the ocean, becoming a black site where no more rogue governments could eye them any longer.

He collapsed that view and touched another series of buttons, rapidly scrolling through contact lists and waiting for the linkup to the mainland fiber network. Most of the Council was scattered all over the world, and they hadn’t had a physical meeting in almost a decade now, so while he waited for the connections to be made, he grew painfully aware of the lack of a cigarette and tried to distract himself by staring at a display of the charges.

Finally, the virtual meeting room completed its links, and the central panel flicked on, projecting the image of five blank faces, the names all showing as “unknown”.

“Mr. Page, I presume?”

Page suppressed his irritation at DeBeers. So much for a secure link. He had to hope no one had tapped tapping the conduit to listen in. Still, he took some comfort in the strain audible in the Council head’s voice, indicative of his failing health as he climbed into his elderly years. He was the reason cryostasis research had been accelerated in B-Building.

“Lucius, good to hear from you,” he said, mostly out of politeness, but it was hard to inject as much respect as the older man expected. “The pylons and charges look good.”

“Then we should get straight to the point. Is the timetable still good?”

“Unless something went horribly wrong, yes, all the charges should go off as planned.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “What about the rest of it?”

“There is unrest all around the world,” another voice said – DuClare, he realized. “Some of the largest cities still have very large augmented populations, and the failure of the Human Restoration Act has created a significant setback. If we allow this to go on too long, we’ll lose control of the Augs completely.”

“Never mind that,” Page said before anyone else could speak, “I’m taking care of it. I want to make _sure_ our agents inside Task Force 29 do as they need. Adam Jensen is too much of a wildcard right now, so we’ll tighten the leash. I want him to find Janus as soon as possible and–”

“The _Council_ will decide what to do with Jensen. You needn’t concern yourself.”

Page felt thankful they couldn’t see his sour expression, but couldn’t keep the ice out of his voice all the same. “I am part of Majestic 12, _Lucius_. My branch was responsible for turning Jensen into what he is today. If it weren't for our operations, he would be a dead body long frozen in the ruins of Panchaea.”

“You don’t need to remind us, Mr. Page,” Everett said. “Your contributions have not and will not go unappreciated.”

_If you say so_ , he nearly said, but held his tongue.

“Jensen will be dealt with in the proper way at the proper time. For now, we need to rely on our psychologist inside Task Force 29 to keep him on schedule.” DeBeers sounded irritated, but as he finished that sentence, Page heard him give a few choked coughs, all of them from deep in the chest. “Once Janus is found and destroyed, we will have no more barriers to our plans, and Jensen can be removed from the system. There will be no one left who can challenge our rule. But, Mr. Page, it _must_ come with time. We must _all_ be patient.”

The fine line between being patient out of necessity and biding one’s time for the sake of itself felt thinner every time he spoke to the Council. They had been in power for so long that they had grown comfortable, assuming their reign would go on forever, and that they only needed to wait everything out to see their desires come to fruition. The sort of incredible power they wielded should never have made them complacent.

Yet, there he was, head of Majestic 12, left out of most major meetings and forgotten, even though, on top of everything else, he was also one of the world’s wealthiest men.

Jensen _was_ a wildcard. Reed had an attachment problem to him, and Jensen in turn likely still had one of his own. He could not be controlled by Neuropozene, and though he had modules implanted in case he went too rogue for them, he still had a complex network of augmentations and powerful experimental ones that could prove too dangerous. If he was kept on too loose a leash, they might not _ever_ be able to control him at all.

Jensen had to be watched, and removed if need be. For now, he was too valuable to simply execute, but he could stand up to a small army of ogres, or any of their specialized Operatives. If he _ever_ went rogue, the amount of damage he could cause if they couldn’t regain control could be catastrophic.

Page had long ago decided he would need to make decisions on his own, because the Council would not.

Sooner or later, someone would have to blink first.

The meeting went on for a while long, most of them talking among themselves and leaving him out of it. If it didn’t concern the Illuminati’s sciences arm, no one bothered to bring him in. Control chips, certainly. New vaccines modified to work only on a certain percentage of the population, absolutely.

Moving pieces on the chessboard of reality, deciding the fate of entire countries? Never.

And Page hated that. _Despised_ it. He had knowledge, he had intelligence, he had power, and he could see likely outcomes in ways no one else seemed to, but no one actually cared. No one called upon the wisdom he had gained in a lifetime shorter than any of theirs, because they believed something “clouded his vision”. They had also spoken of his “temperament”, and how it could have “dire consequences” when left unchecked. Even Everett, who had taken him as his prodigy, had warned him more than once to keep his temper in check.

Page, of course, knew better. He _was_ better and smarter than all of them, and once the nano-augmentations were finally perfected, he would control them _all_.

Foolish old men ran the Council, those who had grown utterly complacent and content with their place in the world, and to see it eternally moved in a single direction with no deviation from some glorious plan they never seemed to have all the details of. The younger minds, such as his own, were not welcome in such a society. Oh, he could be in these facilities, or mingling with the Big Tech giants, whenever he wished. They didn’t care, because he was a useful face to show, one that had been deemed “the attractive one” because of his youthful appearance, a simplistic label he only suffered because it served him.

It was when he tried to make changes that they cared.

When the meeting finally adjourned, he received a polite series of goodbyes before everything went dark again.

Page glared at the rear wall, composing himself. Their time would come. They were _old men_ , and he was in charge of the most powerful arm of their secret society. If worst ever came to worst, he could oust them with little effort and take over, but it probably wouldn’t come to that.

But he thought about it. Often.

Briefly lifting his upper lip in a faint sneer, he connected to a different location – a secure pipeline the Council didn’t have access to that he knew of, linking him to a face in Europe. Joseph Manderley had connections, and for now, he could be told what to do. Task Force 29, in and of itself, was a resource, and it had absorbed multiple other government agencies over the past year. Where it hadn’t done so, it had strengthened existing ties.

“Mr. Page,” Joseph said before he could speak, “what can I do for you today?”

Page folded his arms, fingers again itching for a cigarette. “You probably know what I’m calling about, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. The agent has been completely transferred to the London division of TF29 and is ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. We just need your word to move forward.”

“Prague is going to be a circus soon. I want Jensen watched and the chaos dealt with as appropriate. Deploy immediately so we can start that operation as soon as possible. Make _sure_ he in particular is dealt with _specifically_.”

“Ah... sir, did... the Council auth–”

“Never mind about the Council, Joseph. Just do it.”

A long pause, one that almost drove him mad, before the director took a breath and said, “Yes, sir.” And with that, the line disconnected, and Page was finally alone again.

The Council. The Council. Always _the_ _Council_ , meddling where they didn’t belong. Centuries of history and accomplishments, and the morons running the place now were just throwing it away so they could pat each other on the back and talk about how _great_ they were. Noses in the air. Money to spend that they just sat on instead. Countries bending to their will, but _they could do better than this_.

If the Council chose to continue this destructive thinking, there would need to be a reckoning.

For now, he just had to be patient. And not _their_ definition of _patient_.

Page shut down the room and left without a word to the bemused Clara. One way or another, things were about to change. He could feel it where the Council didn’t seem to care. It was only a matter of time as to which piece on the board ended up knocked off first.

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, I expect this fic to be VERY long and VERY involved, hence some difficulty with the summary (since too many details would spoil too much). I expect to keep posting at a reasonable pace, so be sure to let me know what you think, and enjoy the... undoubtedly interesting ride ahead!
> 
> Those archive warnings are there for good reason.


End file.
